


Superbly Situated

by songs_of_the_moon



Category: Homestuck, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cardassians are Trolls, First date Jitters, Illness, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, TrekStuck, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs_of_the_moon/pseuds/songs_of_the_moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no way that Karkat's first date with John is going to end well.</p><p>So maybe that means it's a good thing that the universe seems to be conspiring to keep it from happening?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

** Be Garak **

The young Alternian comes into your shop right before you start closing up for lunch. You plaster on your best _how may i help you_ smile and ask if he needs anything. He jumps when you speak.

“I, uh,” he bites his lip, “I have a date, and I need to impress, you know?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Bashir watching the two of you intently.

“A romantic tryst, how wonderful,” you say. “Red or black?” The answer is more important than most Alternians tend to realize, as fashion-blind as your kind tends to be.

He fidgets. He’s wearing the gray symbol of the Sufferer, though you doubt he knows its history. “Red, I think. Fuck! I don’t know! Humans are fucking confusing. How can they muddle up just one quadrant so fucking spectacularly?”

“Human behavior can be quite inscrutable,” you agree. Bashir rolls his eyes, exaggerating the motion to make sure you see it. You charitably decide to ignore both the eye-rolling and the vulgarity. “Perhaps a nice jacket to spruce up an existing outfit?” you suggest. He seems to be considering it, so you show him to a rack of outerwear and leave him to his own devices.

You are more curious about the color of his blood than you would like to admit. It has become something of a fad among the lower classes to reject their place on the hemospectrum in favor of neutral, unrestricted gray. In recent sweeps, a handful of highborns have done the same. Revolution is in the wind, though the breeze is yet weak. You are not sure what that might mean for your position, were it to come to pass.

If he is of noble birth (which you doubt), he left that life behind some time ago, given the unkempt states of his horns and claws. He runs a finger down the sleeve of a particularly nice bolero-style jacket, scowling at the embroidery on the cuffs. You hope his ragged nails don’t catch on the delicate stitching.

 

* * *

 

**Be Karkat**

You don’t dare touch the pattern of vines sewn into the sleeves of the weird short coat. It looks fragile, somehow, and fragile things have a way of shattering in your hands.

That’s why you’re so nervous about this, this _thing_ you have with Egbert. It seems like the most fragile thing you’ve ever been a part of, and you just know you’re going to massively fuck it up somehow. Massively fucking shit up is sort of your thing, after all.

And apparently the first item on your _shit to massively fuck up_ list is what the hell you wear to your first date with Egbert. First official date, anyway. There’s no reason why this particular evening spent with him should be different from any of the ones that came before—except, of course, for the name. Before you were _hanging out_ or _gaming_ or _grabbing some dinner_. Tomorrow night, though, you’re _going on a date_ , which is terrifying for reasons you can’t quite quantify.

You frown at the rack of jackets. You’re leaning toward blue, because it’s Egbert’s favorite color, but beyond that you have no idea what you’re looking for. You’ve never really thought of your clothes as ‘outfits’ before; why bother when everything is exactly the same? But apparently Humans put a lot of thought into what they wear on dates, and Egbert is so Human it’s absurd.

“So, what did you mean when you asked him red or black?” It’s the tailor’s Human friend, tone studiously casual.

The tailor tuts. “This is hardly the time or the place for a discussion of such matters, Doctor.”

They can’t see you through the jackets, so you decide to continue eavesdropping.

“I think you’re just being secretive for the sake of being secretive,” the Human responds. You think he might be teasing, but it’s hard to tell.

“I am wounded by your accusations,” the tailor says, and now you’re almost certain they’re teasing. “Do you truly trust me so little?”

The Human laughs. “Trusting you and trusting you to tell the truth are two separate things.”

“What a clever deduction!” The tailor laughs in return. Something about it makes you think that his feelings toward the Human are rather more flushed than his friend realizes. You’ve always had a sense for these things.

When dealing with others, at any rate.

You leave without buying anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Be Karkat**

You’re nervous, and it’s making you clumsy. It’s stupid to be nervous now; it’s early in the morning, and your date isn’t until this evening. That doesn’t stop you from spilling hot coffee on your hands almost as soon as you get to work, a job as a waiter at the Klingon restaurant.

Raktajino is the only drink you serve hot enough to burn even tough Alternian skin, so naturally it’s also the only one that spits and hisses like a frightened regnar when the carafe is almost empty. You jump at the unexpected sound, and the scorching liquid sloshes over your hands. You somehow manage not to curse aloud—the proprietor is fine with swearing, but only when he’s the one doing it—and take a moment to be glad that all Alternians burn black, regardless of their place on the hemospectrum.

You wipe your hands off on your apron and refill the cup, this time from a full carafe. You’ve filled this order at least a dozen times; the Trill Starfleet officer comes by once or twice a week to sip her coffee and people-watch before she goes on duty. She flashes you a distracted smile when you hand her the mug, just like she always does.

The day seems to drag on far longer than it should. Business isn’t slow, but it’s definitely been busier, and you find yourself with time to think more often than you’d like. You find that your thoughts are disjointed and sluggish (a realization that drifts in slow fits and starts up  to conscious consideration) and there is a throbbing ache behind your temples, the latter of which you blame on anxiety. You glance at the charcoal splotches on the backs of your hands. For some reason this reminds you of the tailor from yesterday.

It’s easy to see that he’s an exile. Like all exiles, he’s been stripped of his Sign and whatever rank he may have once had. His eyes strike you as odd, though. The irises are gray, even though he’s sweeps past the point at which they should have taken on the same color as his blood. You’re dying to ask him how he does it. You know that for a while you might be able to pass as a rustblood like Aradia, but eventually your freak pigmentation will be clear to anyone who looks in your eyes.

The proprietor is singing again, some extravagant Klingon opera song that’s probably about the glory of death, or something equally morbid. He sings it so often that you could sing along if you wanted to, and sometimes you catch yourself humming it absent-mindedly. Egbert has heard you doing it, and he’d laughed when you told him what it was.

A week later he invited you to the holosuite, where you’d found him and a large table-looking thing that he called a piano. It was a musical instrument, which became obvious when he began to play that damned Klingon song on it. He managed to keep a straight face for almost fifteen seconds before starting to guffaw. Despite yourself, you’d laughed with him.

 

* * *

 

** Be Proprietor of Klingon Restaurant **

You glare down at the customer nervously ordering. He trails off awkwardly, obviously cowed by your distinguished silence. You turn to bellow his (timid) order into the kitchen, but a crash and a startled scream distract you. You go to investigate the source, ignoring the way the Bajoran is standing on tiptoe to get a better look over the counter.

One of your waiters has collapsed, and a scattered plateful of gagh is attempting to escape. It’s the Alternian, the only one on the station besides the slimy, too-friendly tailor.

“What happened in here?” you demand.

“He just _fell_ ,” one of the cooks says. She’s a Bajoran, normally chipper and level headed. “He’s been kind of out of it all morning, but I just assumed he was tired.”

Vantas makes a quiet, strained chirping sound; Res jumps. His breathing is labored and his face flushed.

“Sit up!” You glower when Vantas makes no effort to comply—nor, for that matter, any sign that he’d heard at all.

“I think we should get him to sickbay,” Res suggests. She crouches beside Vantas. “There might be something really wrong with him. I don’t think this is a healthy color.”

It’s true that you’ve never seen any Alternian turn that particular shade of red before. There is no honor in dying of illness, and the brash youth reminds you of your younger self too much to not care.


	3. Chapter 3

**Be Bashir**

“How do you feel, Mr. Vantas?”

“Like I just hit my head on the fucking floor, how do you think I feel?” He glares at you, arms crossed obstinately.

“I could still give you a hypo of painkillers, if you like,” you offer.

“Fuck off.”

So much for diplomacy. You decide on a more direct approach. “You need to come back tomorrow for another round of antibiotics and a follow-up.” He continues to scowl at you. “What you have is very aggressive, so it’s important that we continue your treatment.” What he has is an Alternian bacterial infection, and you have no idea how you’re supposed to pronounce it.

His face pinches further. “Is it contagious?” He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. “It is, isn’t it? Of fucking course it is. I bet I gave it to Egbert. _Fuck_ , he’s going to hate me for this. I hate me for this!” Vantas pauses for breath, and you take the opportunity to jump in.

“It’s a foodborne illness.” His jaw snaps shut. “It’s most commonly transmitted through improperly prepared keenian beetles. Have you had any recently?”

“I, yeah.” He twists the hem of his sweater roughly; you wonder how he’s managed to avoid putting holes in it. “I had some keenian soup at Quark’s yesterday.”

You’d be lying if you said you were surprised. “I’ll ask Odo to talk to him about it.”

Vantas heaves a melodramatic sigh. “Can I go now?”

On the other side of the room, another patient, a Bajoran, mutters, “Damn ungrateful troll.” You make yourself ignore the slur; a normal Human wouldn’t have been able to hear it anyway.

“You can go, but don’t forget to come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Vantas hops off the biobed. He pauses for a moment, then bites his lip. “Did you, uh,” he ducks his head, “notice anything strange? About me? Not-not that I think there’s anything strange to notice, just, uh, in case.”

You think of the blood sample you’d drawn. “Nothing that I think is anyone’s business but yours. And nothing that anyone but myself saw.”

His shoulders drop. You hadn’t realized how tense he’d been before. “That’s good,” he mumbles. He glances up at you through his bangs, and you do your best to look reassuring. You’re not sure how well you succeed.

“Karkat!” You and Vantas both turn toward the door, where a breathless Human youth is propped against the wall. “Res told me you collapsed! Are you okay? What happened?” He hurries to Vantas, tripping over his feet and his words.

“I’m fine—get off me!” Vantas pushes weakly at his friend, who has him wrapped in a hug. “It’s just food poisoning.”

“It’s not ‘just food poisoning’. It’s a serious illness. You shouldn’t trivialize it because it’s foodborne.” You cross your arms and give Vantas a look that you hope says _take me seriously because i’m your doctor_. He just rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

**Be John**

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were sick!” You’ve stopped hugging Karkat (you think it embarrassed him, isn’t that funny?), but you’re still holding him by the shoulders.

“I didn’t know I was sick! And anyway, what business is it of yours?” He scowls at you.

“Of course it’s my business,” you protest, “you’re my friend! And we’re going on a date tonight, right? So that means we’re like, boyfriends or something, so it’s extra my business.” You grin; he flushes. “C’mon, we need to tell everyone that you’re all right. We were all really worried about you!”

“What do you mean, _everyone_? Who all did you tell, and what the fuck did you tell them?” Karkat twists away from your hands and hunches in on himself.

“Well, uh.” You scratch the back of your head. “I told them you were in sickbay, but that I didn’t know why yet.” Karkat opens his mouth to talk, so you answer the other part of his question to cut him off. “I told Sollux, and Gamzee, and Terezi, and I think I told Aradia, too. And Dave and Jade and Rose, of course. And I told Vriska, and Rose said she’d tell Kanaya and Nepeta. So I guess that means Equius probably heard too. And, uh, everybody else?” You smile a bit sheepishly.

Karkat gapes at you. “You told over a dozen people that I was in sickbay, based on a _rumor_?”

“It wasn’t a rumor! Res was there when you fainted, and she told me as soon as she had a chance.” You cross your arms, feeling a bit defensive.

“And as soon as she told you, you told everyone I’ve ever fucking met,” he spits back. “Human gossip: the most efficient way to spread information ever invented.”

You and Karkat both jump when the friendly doctor whose name you can’t remember loudly clears his throat. “Weren’t you getting ready to leave, Mr. Vantas?” If he’s trying to look or sound stern, he’s failing at both. He mostly seems like he thinks something’s funny. “You’ve attracted a bit of attention,” he adds, and you realize that everyone else in the room is staring at you and Karkat.

“What the fuck are you assholes looking at?” Karkat snaps.

You tug on his arm. “Maybe we should go.” He ignores you.

“Do you really not have anything better to do than gawk at us? That’s pretty fucking pathetic, if your only source of entertainment is my miserable existence. But hey, maybe it’s more fun to watch my life than to live it, I sure as fuck wouldn’t know.”

He keeps talking, but you’re not listening anymore. “Karkat, come _on_.” You pull on his arm again, harder this time—harder, maybe, than you’d intended. Karkat stumbles, cut off mid-rant by his own startled yelp. “Sorry.” You don’t really mean it. “We’re leaving now. Bye, everyone!” You wave to the room at large, then start for the door, still holding Karkat by the arm. He lets you drag him, cursing and grumbling but putting up only token resistance; you know that if he really wanted to shake you off, he could.

Doctor You-Don’t-Remember follows the two of you out.

“The fuck do you want?” Karkat sounds more tired than angry.

“There’s one last thing I need to tell you,” the doctor says. He looks at you, smiles. “In private.”

You stare at him for a second. “Oh! Heheh, sorry. I’ll just,” you gesture down the corridor, “go over there.” You go a little way down the hall and turn to watch them. The doctor is leaning toward Karkat. His expression is very serious. Karkat’s scowling, but that doesn’t really mean very much, so you’re not sure whether you should be worried or not. Karkat nods, and the doctor smiles briefly before disappearing back into sickbay.

“No, I’m not dying,” Karkat says when you go back to his side, “so stop making that face. You look like a kicked barkbeast.”

You guess you hadn’t realized you’d been making a sad face. “That’s good! I’d be really upset if you died, you know.” You grin at him, trying to prevent any association with injured pets.

Karkat rolls his eyes and mutters, “Fuck if I know why.”

“So what’d the doctor guy say?” You poke him in the ribs, and he squirms a little.

“Nothing important. He was just reminding me to come back tomorrow.” Karkat shrugs.

You sling an arm around Karkat’s shoulders, which go stiff. “I’ll remind you, too,” you promise. “I have to make sure you take care of yourself! You’re almost as bad as Sollux sometimes.”

Karkat snorts. “No one’s as bad as Sollux.” He sounds grumpy, but he’s smiling at you, just a little bit, and it makes you feel funny, sort of conflicted. You’re glad he’s smiling, yeah, and you wish he would smile more, but at the same time you’re kind of sad that he usually only allows himself that little quirk of his mouth. You bet he’d be beautiful if he let himself really smile.

“Hey,” Karkat says, “Vantas to Egbert,” and you realize that you’ve been staring at him without saying anything. He flicks your forehead.

“Heheh, sorry. I kind of zoned out there, didn’t I?”

He rolls his eyes again. “Yeah, kind of.”

But he’s still smiling at you. You smile back, and the tips of his ears turn red. You’re so happy that you can’t help it, you just start to laugh. Karkat demands to know what’s so funny; you shake your head, still giggling, and kiss him.

His teeth are as sharp as they look, and you’re pretty sure you’ve cut your lip, but you don’t care. He kisses you back, careful and hesitant, mindful for once of all his points and edges. His lips are chapped, and so are yours, but this is still wonderful, still absolutely _perfect_.

Karkat pulls away first. “You colossal dumbass,” he says, grinning (and for a second all you can think is, _I was right!_ ). “We’re right in the middle of one of the busiest corridors in the whole damn station.” There’s a speck of your blood on his mouth, startlingly red against the black of his lip.

“I don’t care.” It hurts to smile so wide, pulls at your cut lip. You don’t care about that, either.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one kind of got away from me. This chapter is longer than the first two put together! 
> 
> I have this hesitantly outlined at four chapters, so the next one _might_ be the last one. We'll see, haha.


	4. Chapter 4

**Be Karkat**

You are the most worthless, pathetic excuse for a lifeform that has ever had the misfortune to exist.

Egbert—no, John, you’re going to call him John now—kissed you.

You lied to him, and he kissed you.

You feel like you’re going to throw up.

About ten minutes ago, Egbert-you-mean-John had walked you to your block. _I have to go_ , he’d said, and, _You should probably get some rest_. He’d grinned at you, happy and open with his stupid buck teeth. You’d kissed him then, so that you didn’t have to look at him anymore, because looking at him made you feel like an asshole.

But now you’re alone. You’re alone, and it’s hard to breathe. Pacing hadn’t helped, so you’d stopped after only three laps. You clench your fists, claws digging into your palms. The burns on the backs of your hands are gone thanks to your little visit to sickbay, but you wish they were still there so you’d have one more thing to distract you from the pressure in your thorax.

The computer chimes, startling you badly. You’re cursing loudly enough that you almost don’t hear it when the computer says, _“Incoming transmission from Equius Zahhak.”_

“Onscreen.” You have no idea why he’s calling you, but answering him now seems easier than explaining later why you ignored him.

He looks uncomfortable. Of course, he always looks uncomfortable, so you’re not exactly surprised. “Vantas.”

“What do you want, Zahhak?” You scowl at the screen and cross your arms, hiding your bloody palms.

Even like this, it’s easy to see that he’s sweating. He shifts uneasily. “Nepeta has requested that I check on you.” His voice is more stilted than ever, cadence clipped and awkward.

“If she cares so fucking much, why doesn’t she do it herself?”

“She,” he grits his teeth, “she finds it. . .concerning that I have so few in my inner circle and believes that by showing an interest in your condition, I may prove myself capable of being your,” he grimaces, “fur-iend.”

You snort. “She must be fucking crazy if she thinks I want to pal around with an uptight, hemophobic douchnozzle like _you_.”

“I must continue to insist that you refrain from such vulgarity.”

You laugh at him; it’s a sharp, jagged sound. “You call that vulgar? That was nothing. That was the just the goddamn prologue to the fucking _novel_ of insults I’m about to lay on you, each one wrapped in more ‘assholes’ and ‘fuckers’ and ‘bulgelickers’ than your feeble thinkpan can handle.”

Zahhak snarls through broken teeth—“It was clear from the start that Nepeta’s idea, while well-intentioned, was misguided. Your behaviour has only confirmed that.”—and ends the transmission.

You stare at the screen. You’re still angry and frustrated, and talking to Zahhak only made it worse. Damnit, you want to _break_ something, to have something crumble and fall to pieces under your claws. You want to rip and crack and _destroy_ , even though you know the relief will only be momentary. You want—

You want to talk to Gamzee. This is what a moirail’s for, right? You have no idea what time it is on his part of Alternia, but he always answers when you call, night or day. You quickly tell the computer to call him, before you can talk yourself out of it.

He answers after only a few seconds, viewscreen flickering to life with his lazy, familiar smile. He says, “Hey, motherfucker. What’s up?” and you almost cry with relief because he sounds sober. It’s selfish, you know, to be so glad of that because _you_ can’t handle his sopor shit right now, but no one’s ever accused you of altruism.

Some of that must show on your face, because Gamzee frowns. “Bro. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Fuckfuckfuck _fuck_ this was a terrible idea, because now you’re going to have to lie to Gamzee too. “I—you remember John Egbert?”

“You know it, bro. Chipper lil’ motherfucker up and called me earlier tonight, sayin’ you was sick.”

You’d forgotten about that. “I’m fine. That’s not why I called you.” You chew your lip. If Gamzee were there with you, he’d grab your chin and make you stop.

Gamzee leans forward, close enough to the camera that you can see the streaks in his facepaint where he’d used his fingers to apply it. “You don’t need no reason to call me,” he says, as serious as you’ve ever seen him. “You want to talk out some deep shit, that’s fine. But if you want us to just flap our jaws about nothin’? That’s fine too.”

It hits you suddenly how much you miss Gamzee. Not talking to him, you can do that whenever, but just _being_ with him. You miss the weight of his arm around your shoulder. You miss his stupid horn pile, his messy hive, you even miss the way he sometimes picked you up and carried you out into the surf, laughing at your ineffectual _(half-hearted, and he knew it)_ struggling.

“Tell me—” You stop when your voice cracks. You clear your throat and try again. “Tell me how your juggling’s going. Have you been practicing?”

You’re not really listening to his answer, but you don’t think he expects you to. Instead, you just let the familiar cadence of his voice, rolling and swelling like waves, wash into the dark corners of your skull. You catch the occasional ‘honk’ and a few more-than-occasional ‘motherfuckers’, but mostly his speech blurs together in your head. It’s soothing, even more so than the buzzing white-noise hum of the station.

You don’t realize that you’ve closed your eyes until you open them again, which you only do because Gamzee has stopped talking and started chuckling. You shoot him a glare, but it’s lackluster at best.

“Sorry, bro.” He doesn’t sound apologetic in the least. “It’s just, you looked like you was all about to fall asleep right where you’re sittin’.” He giggles again.

He kind of has a point, though. Jackass. “Maybe I wouldn’t fall asleep if your stories weren’t so fucking boring.” You say it automatically, and it lacks heat.

Gamzee grins at you. “Feelin’ better, huh?” You grab a stray sweater off the floor and throw it at the screen. Gamzee laughs, and it makes you think of one of those ridiculous movies ~~Egbert~~ _John_ likes so much, the one where the protagonist’s bloodpusher grows three sizes at the end, because that’s what it seems like—like your thorax isn’t big enough to hold everything you’re feeling.

You’re glad you called him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More abuse of italics! 
> 
> Also, the 'four chapter' plan has officially been thrown out the window.
> 
> Christ, Gamzee is hard to write!

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just a self-indulgent writing exercise, haha.


End file.
